


It's non negotiable

by WendigoDreaming



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bukkake, Circle Jerk, D/s, Demeaning Filth, Hazing, Look at Dubcon clarification at the bottom notes!, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoDreaming/pseuds/WendigoDreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other boys had gone from mocking and swearing to practically vibrating around Kent, shouting things that had turned demeaning. Kent’s stomach tightened and he groaned before stilling to swallow a big gulp.</p><p>“You like that Parser?”</p><p>AKA Kent is trash and drinks three hundred dollar champagne and cum from the Stanley Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's non negotiable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seducerhymeswithdeduce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducerhymeswithdeduce/gifts), [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



Drawn by the glorious [thebarbershopquartet](http://thebarbershopquartet.tumblr.com/post/122224832729/kparse90). This is basically the entire reason this fic exists. Bless you.

 

* * *

 

 

No amount of blow could compare to the high Kent was riding. Scoring the winning goal for the Cup, as a rookie no less. His entire body was buzzing on the ice, through the ceremonies, and even through the endless media hoops he had to jump through.

 _Yes, he couldn’t believe it had really happened. No, he wouldn’t let the the rumors of a Calder win go to his head._  Where was he going to spend the after party? Kent had given them one of his trademark sly smirks that the media ate up and shrugged.  _Dunno, wherever the boys want to go._

Jackson had opened his penthouse to the Ace-exclusive after party, and after a number of beers, Kent’s high had morphed. The high grabbed hold of every beer and dragged it deep down to the pit of his stomach. It was hot, excited, and more than anything else, uninhibited. Kent had already twerked along to Miley at least twice that night . He would have jumped off the Empire State Building if the captain made it sound fun.

Fuck, he’d been taking orders from the boys all night already. Wilson had grabbed his chin and when Kent had stuck out his tongue like a child Wilson had pressed a round pill there.  _Swallow Parser. Have a little fun with us. Consider it a present._  He had swallowed and wagged his tongue like it was nothing.

So maybe the high wasn’t _all_ au natural. Already Kent felt the chemical courage whispering for him to reach out and touch, touch absolutely everything.

“Alright boys. Rookies up front!” their captain Morgan boomed, standing up on the coffee table beside the Stanley Cup, all barrel-chested, tattooed, six feet of him. Kent watched as the older players started to slink their way around the leather couches. The lights were cool and the music was deep. He could already feel the molly he’d taken stroking through him, hands reaching to take him under with each heavy bass beat. He could also feel the gazes of his team members as he, Lowinski, and Quince separated themselves from the pack.

“Kneel,” Morgan said.

Without even considering the words, Lowinski dropped down to his knees and fuck, did he ever look like he was enjoying the carpet under his hands. He probably could have rubbed his face against it and no girl sucking his cock would have felt half as good as the drugs in his system.

“Really? Hazing?” Kent snorted behind Lowinski, taking a step backwards into the lounging crowd that had gathered to watch. None of the boys parted. Maybe if Kent had full control of his faculties, he would have felt the undercurrent in the room shifting  from casual observance to pointed interest in the three rookies at the centre.

“You bet your damn ass it is Parser.” Morgan grinned and then nodded down to the Cup. Quince looked over to him and shrugged, then went to kneel down beside Lowinski, just as blissed out. Lowinski sat up and laid his red head against Quince’s warm, hard shoulder. “Now be a good boy like your teammates and sit down. This is tradition. They’re calling us a _dynasty_ and that ain’t for nothing. We win, rookies drink from the cup. Rules.”

“Rules,” some of the guys echoed, nodding along sagely.

Like Kent even had to listen to Morgan anymore. The season was over. “Seriously?” He laughed, and the room spun as he turned around towards the string of forwards all grinning ear to ear. He’d come here to have fun, not to be a part of some weird ritual. When he went to push his way out of the circle, the rude little fuckers just grabbed hold of his bare arms; their hands on his skin felt like they were melting through him. And when Kent looked up at them he could feel a whole new line of feelings stir in his stomach.

Shit. It totally was the molly.

“This is about the team Parser, not you. Bruney, Chards, deflate Parse’s ego a little would you?”

“What—?” Kent only got through the first word before Bruney’s stupidly large gorilla hands grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, fisted up his hair and then forced him down to kneel on the carpet beside Lowinski and Quince. His knees hit the ground with what felt like enough force to bruise. The tops his ears were burning and Kent snarled.He was a shoe-in for the Calder, these assholes needed him, he’d earned his damn spot on the team. He wasn’t going to be demoted to some frat boy’s desperate pledge. This was his night too.

“Get off me, c’mon!” Kent snapped, turning around as if to bite Bruney like an unruly dog.

“This is just some fun, Parser. It’s always been this way, it’s not a big deal. Shit, that molly needs to kick in and soften that mouth of yours. Relax.”

Kent rolled his shoulders and then put his hands on the shag carpet obediently, staring down hotly.

“Better,” Morgan said in that same Captain voice he used when he was complimenting the team’s form.

There was rustling around the room and murmurs before Kent could hear the distinctive sound of zippers. His head flung up, and the dizziness that came flooding after it made him dig his nails into the carpet and hold on for dear life.

“What are you guys doing? The hell?” Kent glanced at Quince, who looked even deeper into the drug-addled haze than he was. He turned to look around the room. Once Kent moved, he felt the molly grab hold of his horror, and jam it into a different gear entirely.

He’d seen all of the team member’s cocks before. He’d never seen them like this, though.

Morgan smiled as he fisted himself. “Well I did say you were going to drink from the cup. I guess I didn’t specify just what it was you were drinking.”

 

* * *

 

The goalie, Brooks, had just finished his load into the Stanley Cup. His freckled cheeks were pink and his moans were strangled after battling through whiskey dick for a few minutes.

On the veteran’s side it had been so impersonal. It was like they were just dumping a bit of their drinks into the proverbial tub juice cup for the rookies to drink. Instead of, you know, dumping in a bottle of Armand de Brignac’s “Ace of Spades” champagne in and jacking off around each other. They’d chirped each other’s dick sizes, laughed goodheartedly at those who finished too quickly, and belittled poor Brooks as he rutted desperately to finally finish. It was like changeroom banter.

And yet Kent’s mouth hung open, his legs spread apart across the carpet as he watched the last of them finish. Bisexual when high was totally a thing, but on molly it was even worse. Weed made you want a casual blowjob from your joint buddy, but as Kent watched each of the boys he’d sweated and played with shoot their loads he felt the drugs turn him into a mouthy mess. He… he, fuck, he wanted them in his mouth, he wanted his hands on them.

He wanted his hands and skin against something before he combusted with need.

Increased sensitivity to touch, euphoria, arousal… it was so laughably textbook.

The bit of his jersey between his lips was soaked from how Kent mouthed hungrily at it. When they brought the Cup over towards Quince first, it dropped from Kent’s mouth.

“Drink up, Quichey, whoever drinks the most wins.” Morgan smiled down at him and ruffled his hair affectionately. Quince seemed to go pliant under the attention, preening like a damn cat as the chemicals in his system had him yearning for touch.

“Wins what?” Lowinski whispered hoarsely, sounding just as strongly in the grasp of the drug.

“First choice in bunking partner for next season, plus every year the bastard who drinks the most winds up with the most points the following season. It always works. It’s like that African tribe, they do this to build warriors. We do it so you rookies don’t fuck us over next year as seniors.”

“Plus it’s the fucking Stanley Cup. I mean are you just going to not drink out of it?” Chards added, voice dripping with his heavy midwestern accent.

This wasn’t supposed to be necessarily sexual. It rode the dangerous cusp of being extreme hazing and a flat out circlejerk, but Morgan’s calm control seemed to push it back to some safe “normal” place for everyone but Kent. For him, every time Morgan opened his mouth, Kent’s breathing dipped a pitch deeper.

Kent watched in awe as that seemed to be enough to placate Quince and he smiled over at Lowinski and Kent. “Fuck it,” he laughed, all hazy eyed, as he wrapped his dark lips around the cup and tilted it back.

The room erupted into catcalls and shouts. It was as if they’d moved from interest to fanaticism, like their fans in the game. They were cheering Quince on as his eyes shut tight and his brows furrowed in disgust.

Kent swallowed heavily and watched Quince’s adam's apple bob off beat. This was… a lot more than weed-bi.

“Fucking champ!”

“Quichey! Fucking atta’ boy!”

Quince was at it only for a few moments before he tore his mouth away and let out a loud gag. “You are all disgusting animals, he grumbled half-heartedly, licking the briny, bubbling stickiness from his lips and then for show licking each of his fingers. He hadn’t spilled at all. “Ruined some fancy ass champagne. Ugh, one of you tastes revolting. Souring the entire pot.”

“Brooks.” One of the boys called and Kent watched the goalie laugh nervously.

“That your first time guzzling cum, Quichey? You barely lasted.”

“Yeah, of course it was! I can take more though I…”

“Mn. Nope. Wait your turn. Greedy little fucker.”

Lowinski was next and far more eager. His hands reached out for the cup when Morgan brought it to him. Kent watched in awe as Lowinski licked the brim where Quince had been drinking from before. He mouthed at the rim just a little, being almost as mouthy as Kent felt. The little red curls from his playoff mullet were plastered against the back of his neck. He was sweating through his high like no other.

Lowinski looked fucking graceful as he lifted up the cup with almost no energy and tilted it back. The same intensity flowed through the crowd as Lowinski struggled through each swallow, wincing and at one point almost looking like he was going to pull back and spit his mouthful onto the floor. He drank more than Quince but when Morgan turned the cup from him, Kent was finally able to stare down inside.

It was a lot. Holy shit, was it a lot.

Morgan’s hand came down to ruffle his head too and it felt like every bone in his body had suddenly disappeared. He’d never wanted to have sex with Morgan before, but in that moment he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around his tattoos and sit on his dick. How fucking embarrassing to be sitting there, the only one still hard, and wanting desperately to beg his captain to touch him. He was making this so,  _so_  gay.

“Come on Parser. Show us what that pretty, cocky little mouth of yours can really do.”

Kent swallowed with a click.

He lifted up the cup and tilted it back. At the first taste of the familiar brine and salt, Kent almost pulled back and gagged. How the fuck was he supposed to sit there and swallow it all back?

The moment he paused he heard a hearty round of booing from the boys circling him.

No, fuck that. He was Kent fucking Parson and he wasn’t going to let Lowinski, the straightest bastard he’d ever met, win. He hadn’t spent years on his knees for Jack, or Aaron, or Hockley, or.... fuck, any of those other one night stands, to lose this.

“Back off,” Kent growled, as Quichey tried to reach for the cup to outdo him. “I’m not done.”

“Ohhhh? Thirsty are we?” one of the boys hollered.  Kent smirked out at the crowd before tilting the cup back and opening his throat. It was just like funnelling shit beer if he didn’t think about it too much.

Except he was thinking about it. Fuck, was he ever thinking about it. Kent’s eyes fluttered closed as he guzzled back what his boys had emptied out for him. Each of them groaning and gripping the edges of the cup as they came one after another. And each of them watching now as their cum slipped down Kent’s throat and turned his mouth sticky.

Another gulp, another.

He could feel the cum dripping down his chin as he lifted the cup higher. He looked over at Lowinski and Quince out of the corner of his eye, noting with pleasure that they were staring with their stupid big mouths open and gaping. The other boys had gone from mocking and swearing to practically vibrating around Kent, shouting things that had turned... demeaning. Kent’s stomach tightened and he groaned before stilling to swallow a big gulp.

“You like that Parser?” Morgan asked darkly, his voice  heavier, rougher than before. He reached out and cupped Kent’s messy mouth, forcing him away from the cup to look at him. “You’ve obviously sucked cocks before, haven’t you?”

Kent simply licked his lips clean and then turned towards the hand, mouthing at the callouses there.

“Wanna suck mine?”

Kent nodded, unable to think of anything better.

“He’s hard,” one of the boys leered.

Kent's eyes dilated, pupil drowning out any colour, as Morgan crouched down beside him. Not that Morgan’s eyes were any better. Morgan’s entire face was betraying any “casual” interest he had as a concerned captain.

Kent kept mouthing at Morgan’s hands, nuzzling into them as the molly made that simple movement so catlike, like he was marking him. He wanted Morgan’s hands through his hair, pulling him down onto him and suffocating him.

What he wouldn’t give to have all the boys hold him down, call him names, call him a dirty slut, and make him feel half as used up as he used to make Jack feel.

Morgan smiled with all his teeth as he held Kent with one hand, the other smearing the cum along his jaw. “Fucking waste is what you are Parser. You could have any girl after tonight, but instead you want to be a good little cum dump for us, don’t you? It’s a good look on you.” The rest of the team laughed as Kent let out a faint groan at the name calling.

Fuck the molly, fuck it entirely. But also how could he get his hands on it again? Coke had never made him feel this needed, or wanted. Coke made him invincible. He could talk for hours, practice until his feet were bleeding. Weed sweetened the crash and made him alright with being so fucking alone. Hell, even booze gave him the courage to do the stupid shit that got him on tabloids. But molly? Molly just made him want to be fucked and used up until he couldn’t tell up from down, or the team’s skin from his own.

“You took the challenge and ran with it, eh?” Lowinski chirped beside him, and Kent swore he sounded like he was pouting.

“Now Lowski, don’t be jealous. You aren’t done. Kent can’t finish it all.” Morgan pulled away from Kent, Kent’s face moving a solid inch into empty air after the touch before pulling back.

Kent held on tight as Morgan tried to pry the cup away from him.

“Fuck off. It’s mine until I tap out.” Kent gave the cup a tug from Morgan and the boys exploded into the team’s cheer, their voices deepened with each chant, sparking arousal low in Kent’s stomach.

“Alright Kent, then show us what you’ve really got.”

Kent crawled forward to the cup, wrapping his thighs around it and staring in. There wasn’t too much left, but he was totally going to be sick later with all of it sloshing around inside of him. And yet he still leaned down, determined to finish what he started, dipping his fingers in and then obscenely sucking them off.

“Never say Kent Parson ever did something half-assed,” he rasped, finishing the last of it.

Kent smirked out into the crowd of hungry boys and hefted the cup up one more time.

 

* * *

 

Kent stood in front of the mirror, bracing himself on the vanity. The boys had given him time to clean his mess up, but not until after Morgan had made him finish in his pants in front of everyone. There had been some cameras trained on him, but he’d deal with that in the morning.

The molly and beers were still thrumming through his veins but now the nausea was for a whole new reason.

All of it swallowed back. Spitters are quitters, and Kent sure as fuck wasn’t a quitter.

Reaching up, Kent pressed his fingers into the sticky mess all over him, only now starting to dry. He was mess, but it was hot. Honestly, Morgan was right, it totally was a good look on him. His dress shirt was crumpled and stained, his hair a mess of cowlicks, and all along his muzzle was the mixed mess of his teammates covering his greedy mouth.

He looked picture perfect.

On that note, Kent dug into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone.

The picture he took of himself on Snapchat had him pretending to wipe off some of the cum, winking. Was this poor decision making? Probably. But then again he had never really prided himself in making great decisions. Especially not around the one boy who, even after tonight, he would still crawl all over and suck off until he sobbed.

_‘one hell of an after party. still thirsty.’_

He scrolled through his contacts, hovering over “Jack Zimmerman”. He would have to thank Bitty some time for making Jack an account. The molly whispered at him to do it, so he pressed his sticky thumb to the screen and hit  _send_.

 

* * *

 

First thing in the morning, as Kent lay sore and bruised beside Morgan, he grabbed blindly for his phone. When he managed to find it shoved under Morgan’s pillow, he opened it and stared blearily at the screen, checking for a reply.

No reply, but Jack had opened it. He hadn’t ignored it like all of Kent’s other belligerent attempts at communication. A grin split across his face at the thought.

Kent tossed his phone back towards his pants; it made a bit of a worrying _thump_  on the floor, but it didn’t matter, because right beside “Jack Zimmerman” there had been the all too telling criss-crossed arrowheads. Jack had done more than just looked at it, he had taken a screenshot.

And that small victory felt greater than any Stanley Cup win.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent warning: Kent is under the influence of molly and while he is pretty into the events his consent is... rather fuzzy. 
> 
> A big, BIG thanks to seducerhymeswithdeduce and reserve for beta'ing this and making it sound worlds better. A special thanks to seducerhymeswithdeduce though for showing me the artwork that made this happen and making it a super fun process!
> 
> This is basically a culmination of everything I love: Kent Parson, humiliation, circle jerking... just.... this was fun to write.
> 
> Yeah so also the title sorta comes from Nicki Minaj:  
> "If you want it all  
> It's non negotiable  
> So do as I say"
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :) Leave a comment or kudos if you did!


End file.
